


Call It a Night

by L_Morgan



Series: Mister Big [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:59:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/pseuds/L_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg begins to put away the pieces of his old life and finds himself somewhere he hadn't expected to be (at least not yet).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call It a Night

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of a larger arc. Special thanks to my rockstar betas, Jadis and Starslikedust. I only own the remaining mistakes!

At half past ten, Greg rocked back on his heels and surveyed the contents of his life, organized in four uneven piles in the center of his living room: back, boot, bin, and keep. 

The first pile, slightly bigger than the rest, contained all of the halves of his former life: four plates, four saucers, and four teacups that belonged to a larger set of eight. One lamp, that used to be two. Eighteen pieces of flatware that used to be part of three dozen. Two pint glasses, that used to be four. Two bath sheets that used to be four, two face cloths, one throw pillow, one champagne flute.... The list went on and on. 

Hell, he even had one bookend made out of petrified wood that they had gotten as a wedding gift. According to the card that he’d found taped to the bottom of it, it was supposed to be good for helping you figure out what was important and what was not - “enabling you to stop worrying about the ‘small stuff.’" Fat lot of good that did ‘em.

It hadn’t been the best day of their mediation when they’d decided to split everything fifty-fifty. As far as he was concerned, she could have it all back - assuming she even wanted it.

The second pile was designated for the Yard’s annual boot sale, assuming that he could find someone with a boot big enough to hold all of his crap. And the bin pile, slightly bigger than the boot pile, was exactly what it sounded like. T-shirts so worn that they probably weren’t even good enough to wipe down the cars that he’d been riding around in of late, old newspaper clippings, chipped coffee mugs, worn sneakers, busted phones, dodgy torches, corroded batteries, orphaned socks, and faded boxers.... He glanced at his watch and sighed.

He hadn’t quite expected to spend the last eight hours digging through the remains of his life. In fact, he had sort of assumed that he would have spent some of that time wrapped around a certain ginger bloke who had more than caught his attention. But when he walked into his small, stuffy flat after a little less than a week, something snapped. 

He was nearing middle age, for God’s sake. What the hell was he doing living like a uni student? 

His sudden disgust with his situation was completely normal, he told himself as he tore into the first of the moving boxes that he’d been skirting around ever since he moved in, and nothing to do with the posh, immaculately furnished flat that he’d been recently staying in. 

The key to which had been burning a pocket in his brand new denims, now streaked with dirt and covered in dust.

The key that came with more questions than answers, Greg thought, turning his attention to the meager pile of belongings that he actually intended to keep. A pile that consisted, more or less, of a few well-worn paper backs, a handful of CDs, a soup mug that could double as either a coffee mug or a cereal bowl, and a spoon that he’d nicked from the canteen.

He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out the key to Mycroft’s spacious townhouse, full of books, china, antique furniture, plush towels, elaborate bedding, fancy French soaps, real red wine glasses, and more colored bowls that you could shake a stick it.  

And that was only in the few rooms that he’d seen.

So, Mycroft had given him a key. 

Was it a "come over anytime" sort of key?

Or was it a "come over when I invite you" sort of key?

Or was it just a fuck with his head - in front of Wilson, no less - sort of key?

Or maybe, just maybe, it was a "come in live me and be my love" sort of key? He snorted, almost equal parts disgust and amusement.

He had sort of thought the bastard would call, but no. Instead, Greg’s phone had stayed mockingly silent all night. He’d even checked the battery, like a total chump. 

Giving up trying to figure out Mycroft - he was Sherlock’s brother, for crying out loud, and Greg had certainly never had any success on that front either - he pushed the key back into his pocket and hauled himself up to his feet. 

His head swam for just a minute as he rolled his shoulders. Yawning, he glanced back over at his phone and thought about calling. But what the hell was he going to say? 

‘Hey Mycroft, I know that you gave me a key, but I was wondering if that meant I could actually use it?’

Or maybe, ‘I know it’s late, but fancy a bit of company? You wouldn’t even have to get up if you’re already in bed, because, hey, I have a key!’

‘Hey, I’m covered in fifteen shades of filth after realizing that three-quarters of my life is destined for the boot sale; either that or the bin. Think I could come live with you in that fancy house of yours?”

Shaking his head - this time with not a trace of amusement to be found - he flipped off the lamp next to the couch and went to bed.

 

 

And laid there.

 

 

And then laid there some more.

 

 

At quarter past one, Greg took a steadying breath and slid the key into the heavy lock and slipped inside. The alarm was off. He set his overnight case quietly on the floor, before taking off his coat and hanging it on the door rack next to the brolly Mycroft had been carrying the night they met.

Unlike the previous times he’d been there, the three story flat was bathed in darkness. In fact, the only light that Greg could see as he exited the cab came from the second story. And even that - at least from the street - looked like it was probably a lamp, as opposed to an overhead.

He hadn’t really thought it through back in his own flat. 

It wasn’t even like he knew what room Mycroft slept in, and the last thing he wanted to do was to stumble in on Sherlock in the middle of the night.

Feeling a bit foolish, but not willing to let himself back out and spend another thirty quid to get back to his own demolition site, he squared his shoulders and headed up the stairs, the trainers that he’d changed into practically silent on the carpeted steps.

As soon as Greg stepped onto the second story landing, he saw the light that he’d seen from the street. It was coming from the southwest corner, through a door that had been left ajar ever so slightly.

The golden cast lit a pathway across the ornate carpet; a surprisingly welcome message in an otherwise silent house.

Closing his eyes, Greg took a deep breath and held it for a count of three, before exhaling. He did this three more times, because the last thing he wanted was to waltz into Mycroft’s room - assuming it was his room - in a bit of a panic. 

As he walked down the hall, he caught a reflection of himself in one of the ornate mirrors that decorated the walls. 

Rumpled hair, long sleeved t-shirt that had been washed one or two times too many and his favorite pair of denims that had been been worn through in more places than he could count. He looked like he felt every time he’d been there. Not old and in the way, exactly, but definitely out of place, if not completely in over his head.

He stopped and looked himself in the eye for just a moment, wondering when exactly this had become his reality. The totality of his life in four orderly piles across town, an ex-wife in Chelsea, and him sneaking into a Westminster flat in at 2 a.m. for sex, or for whatever this was.

‘It’s not sneaking in if you were invited,’ his inner voice chimed in.

But that was the question, wasn’t it? Had he been?

Shaking off his doubts, he jerked himself away from his reflection and walked purposively for the door. 

He had a key. 

If Mycroft hadn’t wanted him to use it, he wouldn’t have given it to him.

And if he did mind? Well, then Greg figured it would be worth another thirty quid to get his arse home and back in bed before sunrise. And then at least he’d know.

He stood at the door silently, and lay his hand on the paneled wood. He pushed it open ever so slightly. 

“My?” he whispered.

Nothing.

Taking another deep breath, he opened the door just enough so he could slip inside. 

Like the rest of the flat, the room was tasteful and elegant, but not quite as spartan. In fact, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to say that this room, in comparison to the others, was decadent. 

It was also about three times the size of the flat that Greg had left across town - not just his bedroom, but the entire space.

Even in the shadows, the floors gleamed - that is, at least the bits that weren’t covered in rugs that looked like they would be more at home on a wall than beneath your feet. 

He took a few steps forward, feeling his feet sink into the heavy carpet.

Mycroft was propped up on the left side of the bed, near the lamp that had served - at least to Greg anyway - as a beacon. It obviously hadn’t been as effective for Mycroft, who was sound asleep. A pair of reading glasses balanced precariously on his nose and a file as thick as that triple murder Greg had closed last week lay neatly on his lap.

Now that he knew that he was in the right place, Greg took a few moments to look around. Because this room, unlike that one that he’d spent time in before, felt like a bedroom. This was not My’s suite for one night stands - or even the spartan living area where he entertained, assuming that he did entertain, but, rather, where he _lived_.

Although he knew that it was a bit creepy to be standing there watching a man sleep, Greg, nonetheless, took a few seconds to look around. He hadn’t made D.I. for nothing, after all.

The walls were red and the bed, itself, was huge - dark wood, low to the ground, with four spindly posts reaching up towards the ceiling. One entire wall, again, covered in books and the occasional photograph. 

One low dresser, bare, sat on the west wall between two floor to ceiling windows partially covered in heavy damask drapes that hid panels of gauze. Two upholstered chairs sat in the corner, facing what he assumed was a functioning fireplace, with a small round table, also teeming with books, between them.

There was a small door offset to the right, which he assumed was either a water closet or a walk in closet, or both. Because unlike his own stye, Mycroft’s room was completely free of clothing of any sort. Ergo, there had to be a closet somewhere and given the man’s fashion habits, it was probably fairly substantial.

Not entirely sure of his welcome, Greg figured that it was the least he could do to wake Mycroft up - if only to prevent him from waking with a crick in his neck. 

Feeling surprisingly protective of the man, Greg tiptoed silently towards the bed. 

“Mycroft?” he whispered, suddenly filled with a warm burst of affection. Though he’d woken up with him before, he hadn’t fully appreciated how young he looked when Mycroft was sleeping. 

“Hey.” Greg dropped a light kiss on his lips. “Wake up.”

Mycroft started, his eyes fluttering open. “Gregory?” he murmured, still sleepy.

“Hey,” Greg smiled and reached out to remove his glasses. “It’s late. You need to lay down so that you don’t have an achy neck in the morning.”

Mycroft’s hands tightened around the folder in his lap. “You’re here.”

Greg nodded slowly, recognizing exhaustion when he saw it. “Yes, I am,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Now, let’s get you to bed, okay?” 

He folded the glasses and set them at the base of the lamp, before turning back to the matter at hand. “Give me that file and I’ll just put it over there and you can get some sleep.”

Mycroft shook his head, pulling the file folder even closer. “No.”

“I’m not going to look at it,” Greg said, trying to sound reasonable. “Just trying to make sure you get some rest.”

“What time is it?” Mycroft asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Half past one or a little after,” Greg held out his hand. “I’ll just put it right there; you can watch, I won’t look.” He leaned forward, giving Mycroft’s lower lip a little kiss. “Don’t you want to go to bed?”

“Are you staying?” Mycroft asked, voice barely a whisper.

“Do you want me to?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft said, finally surrendering the file. 

Greg could feel Mycroft’s eyes tracking his every movement as placed the heavy folder on one of the chairs near the fireplace. Turning back to face the bed, but without coming any closer, he just stood there, waiting. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Mycroft slipped off the robe that he’d been wearing and tossed it to the foot of the bed. “I gave you a key didn’t I?” 

Greg cocked his head to one side. “But then you didn’t call.”

“Maybe I was waiting for _you_ to call,” Mycroft returned, and, suddenly, Greg felt a little like they were playing tennis. Deciding to go with the metaphor, he took one step towards the four poster bed, then another, until he was leaning against one of the cherry posts. 

“Is that you’re way of telling me the ball’s in my court?”

Mycroft’s mouth thinned, though he didn’t look annoyed. If anything, he looked amused. “And if the ball, so to speak, _was_ in your court?”

Greg started to be funny, but then - given that what he actually knew about tennis could fit in his back pocket - decided against it. 

“If I was one of your ilk,” he said, hating the defensiveness that he heard in his voice. “I would probably make a proper joke about love and some such, but I’d probably muck it up and make a bit of a fool of myself.” He glanced away, trying to take the sting out. “So, all references to love, sets, and matches aside, suffice it to say that I’d do my damnedest to get it back over the net.” Greg met Mycroft’s eyes and held. “No harm no foul.”

“So, does that mean that you’re playing to win?” Mycroft raised one brow, almost daring Greg to look away.

“Not necessarily.” Greg took a step forward, letting his hand fall from the post. “In fact, I think it’s pretty safe to say that I’m looking to tie - that is, assuming we’re talking about something other than tennis.” He held his breath for just a beat. “What exactly are you looking for, _Mr. Holmes_?”

“In matters of the heart,” Mycroft said, reaching to pull the covers down on the other side of the bed, “I believe that a tie is always the desired outcome. Will you be joining me this evening, _Detective Inspector_ Lestrade?”

Not daring to ask if Mycroft was asking about the love, the set, or whatever else they might be talking about, Greg pulled off the t-shirt and tossed it on the chair, causing the file to spill to the floor, photographs spilling onto the rug like confetti. And not really giving a rat’s arse about whatever state secrets he’d just sent crashing to the ground, he kicked off his trainers, popped the buttons on his jeans, undid the zip, and shimmied free - leaving them in a pool near his feet.

“Should I keep going?” he asked. He slipped his thumbs into the waist band of his boxers and gave them a little tug, revealing that little dip at his hip that his ex had always been so crazy about.

If the hitch in Mycroft’s breath it was anything to go by, it was working for him too. 

“By all means,” Mycroft whispered, eyes the most alert that they’d been since Greg walked into the room. “As I had hoped I made clear earlier, feel free to make yourself at home.”

“Really?” Greg raised his eyebrow in disbelief as he headed towards Mycroft’s side of the bed. “You may get more than your bargained for with that, ‘cause I think you’ll find that I don’t need to be asked a third time.”

“Thank Christ.” Mycroft reached for Greg’s hand and pulled him down into his lap. “Because I can assure you, my dear Gregory, I can think of nothing that would please me more.”

 

 

Greg had to give it to him: Mycroft Holmes was like a kid in a candy shoppe.

Palms, fingers, nose, lips, tongues, teeth. Whatever problems that Sherlock and Mycroft - obviously, to a lesser extent - had with everyday people skills, they more than made up for with base interest, not to mention prurient curiosity. 

Though he’d only observed Sherlock fascinated by the dead, Mycroft was most certainly captivated by the living.

Greg huffed out a shock of laughter as he found himself face down on the the mattress, one of Mycroft’s silk clad knees on either side of his hips. A brief bite here, a lick there. A sniff, a snuff, and finally an elegant sneeze.

“Shhh....” Mycroft soothed as he planted tiny kisses on the tender skin behind Greg’s ear, his hands gripping tightly at his waist. 

“You need to get naked, My,” Greg complained bucking up. “I want to feel you, not some damn silk.”

“There’s nothing wrong with silk,” Mycroft whispered into his skin, taking the opportunity to slide his frustratingly clothed groin across Greg’s hips.

Greg groaned. “You’re right,” he said, after a moment. “But it’s not you.”

Mycroft stilled. “And that’s important to you?”

“Damn right it’s important!” Greg bucked up, just enough to throw off Mycroft’s hands and roll over where he lay. “I can jack off on your pjs when you’re not around....” He reached up and touched the delicate hollows in Mycroft’s throat. “I want to touch _you_ ,” he said. “I want to _see_ you.”

Mycroft shook his head ever so slightly, the blood that had been in his face racing to meet Greg’s fingertips. “But why?”

Something that felt suspiciously like Greg’s heart, broke. 

He slid his other hand up Mycroft’s thigh, then up underneath the loose pajama top, seeking skin. “Because you’re gorgeous.” He lifted his hips, grinding his erection up against Mycroft’s heavy length. “Because you make me hard. Don’t tell me that you can’t feel that, Mycroft? You’re bloody amazing - all that ivory skin, that ginger hair.”

Greg drew one hand down and the other up, slipping buttons along the way, revealing Mycroft’s narrow chest and the swell of belly that Greg knew even from his own brief experience that Mycroft absolutely hated. 

“I want to see those freckles so I can connect the dots with my tongue, you silly man.”

He skimmed the backs of his fingers along the gentle curves, following whenever Mycroft flinched away. “So stop hiding from me,” he whispered.  “You say you want me here....”

“I _do_ want you here.”

“Then _act_ like it.” 

With eyes narrowed, Mycroft leaned down, bringing their torsos together. 

Greg leaned up to meet him, licking his way into Mycroft’s mouth; he tasted like mint with a just a touch of bourbon. When he felt Mycroft finally surrender to the kiss, he pushed the top away, running hands around shoulders and down arms until their fingers twined together.

They traded kisses back and forth, until Greg shifted to the right. 

“What?” Mycroft asked; he sounded suspicious.

“Take those pants off,” Greg commanded, pushing the blankets aside and rolling him to the mattress. “Come on, before you have to get up to go to work.”

Mycroft shifted warily. 

“Come on,” Greg urged, scrambling to his knees. “Jesus,” he muttered, reaching for the Mycroft’s waistband. “Your dry cleaning bill most be through the roof.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifted, as did his hips, allowing Greg to peel away the offending garments.

“Now isn’t that nice?” Greg murmured as he climbed back on top of Mycroft, grinding his erection into Mycroft’s hip, before lining them up. He wrapped his hand around the two of them. Mycroft hissed. Without taking his eyes from Mycroft’s face, Greg began stroking them from root to tip, an easy rhythm, designed to stoke the heat, rather than start a fire. 

“And just so you know....” he leaned forward, dropping a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek and dragging his lips across to the corner of his mouth. “I’d take your bare skin over the finest silk any day of the week.”

Mycroft shuddered beneath him. “Then, what, pray tell, are you waiting for?”

“Do you think you can do better?” Greg asked, giving Mycroft’s cock a twist, then thumbing his own pre-cum over the head of his erection, his fingers picking up speed against the viscous fluid. “Or maybe you have something better to do? Another file to read, maybe?”

“Gregory,” Mycroft warned, his eyes darkened to black. 

“Or maybe a spot of tea with the Queen?” Greg smirked, giving them both a quick tug. He closed his eyes against the shocked look on Mycroft’s face, so that he wouldn’t come himself. “You’re not the only one with sources, My,” he bit out out, doing his level best to recite the alphabet backwards, convert inches to centimeters.... Anything to keep his spine from exploding and causing his brain to melt out of his ears. But the little polite, breathy sounds Mycroft was making, not to mention the way his hips moved to meet Greg’s every tug, certainly weren't helping.

“Gregory!” Mycroft cried out, his face contorting; he looked like he was in pain as he reached up and threaded his fingers through Greg’s hair. He pulled Greg down with a sharp tug, crashing their lips together in a bruising kiss.

Time stood still and, not for the first time since he’d met the man, Greg saw stars. The world exploded behind his eyelids, and his toes curled so hard, his feet hurt.

“Jesus,” he gasped, pulling away just long enough to take a breath, before falling back into a kiss. He could feel the pulsing across his fingertips, splattering hot and wet against his stomach. “God, I lo -”

And in less than a split second, everything changed.

Mycroft went rigid beneath him and Greg froze entirely.

 _“What_ did you say?” Mycroft asked, meeting his eyes with deadly intent.

Barely able to find his breath, Greg rolled to the side and lay flat on his back. “I must be tireder than I thought,” he remarked with a bit of a chuckle. He could barely even hear himself think over the pounding in his ears. ‘Bloody hell, Greg!’ he thought, ruefully. ‘What the bloody hell did you have to go and start to say something like that for?’

“What did you _say?”_ Mycroft rolled towards him, throwing one long leg across his thighs.

‘What the hell?’ Greg shook his head. After all, it wasn’t like he was the one who’d been passing out house keys like they were bus passes. “I started to say that I love you,” he said as fast as he could, before he lost his nerve. “But then I realized that’s crazy.”

Mycroft’s entire body twitched and he rolled away.

“Mycroft?” Greg reached out, taking his hand. “Are you okay? I hope I didn’t spook you.”

“No,” he answered shortly. “It’s all fine. I’m fine.”

“Good,” Greg took a deep breath, glad that he hadn’t scared him off. “I know it’s too soon to say something like that to someone....”

Mycroft rolled back over, eyes glittering in the shadows. “Excuse me?”

Greg shifted until they were face to face. “I know it’s too soon,” he said awkwardly. “And the last thing I want you is for you to think that I’m some sort of psycho stalker. My mum always told me to look before I leap, but.....” Greg trailed off, mesmerized by the slow smile that was spreading across Mycroft’s face and melting the hardness of his expression.

Like so many times before, Mycroft seemed to de-age before his very eyes.

“What?” Greg asked, reaching up to touch his face. “It’s not funny.”

“No...” Mycroft turned his head ever so slightly, brushing a kiss to his fingertips. “...it’s not.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Greg asked, trying to swallow down the defensiveness before he said anything else he might regret.

Mycroft’s smile slid into what looked like amazement. “Only that I think - maybe - I might actually love you, too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> And special thanks to everyone for commenting and the kudos! You're inspiring!


End file.
